Living Art
by studentnumber24601
Summary: Once, Bumlets asked Dutchy why he only painted graffiti, not real art. Dutchy said because graffiti was real art, the art of the people. It was alive. [modern, violence, language, slash]


Diego Ramirez lived in the part of Manhattan that was the Bronx in everything but technical location. Graffiti was a fact of life, and he'd been seeing it for his whole life. He didn't even notice it, usually.

The first time he really took note of a piece of graffiti was near the beginning of ninth grade. Someone had doodled on one of the library study carrels. Amidst the carved in initials, swear words, and phone numbers, it said, "_Kilroy Was Here," _in thick black marker. Underneath it was a doodle of a cartoon face peering over a fence. Diego smiled a little before turning back to the essay he was writing; he'd seen that image in a history book. It looked like he wasn't the only one getting _something_ out of his sub-par, under-funded public school education.

The next time he noticed graffiti was when it was scrawled elaborately over his desk in English class. It was a name drawn in slanted block letters, each of which had an arrow drawn into it. It was shadowed and looked almost three-dimensional, with painstaking texture in each letter. He blinked, looking at it again; the first time he'd only been admiring the artistry, but this time he read it. "Dutchy."

Diego wondered how it had really gotten there. It was too intricate to have been doodled quickly, and while teachers were often distracted trying to prevent gang fights from breaking out in the hallways, so someone drawing on a desk could easily be overlooked, but he thought it was too involved to have been done in a single period. But he'd had the same desk the previous day, and it hadn't been there.

He shrugged, figured he was just over-analyzing it, and went back to the book he'd been reading below the desk. It was more informative than his class was, anyway.

* * *

Most afternoons, Diego worked at the bodega at the end of his block. When he wasn't stocking shelves, he sat at the counter and did homework between customers. The shop's owner, Mr. Ramos, liked him; Diego was quiet and polite. Not like his brother.

Dario Ramirez wasn't a particularly good kid. He was in a gang, if it could be called that; it had started off as a bunch of kids who hung out together and played basketball. They called themselves the Bloody Palms, because new members cut their palm to become blood-siblings with an older member. That had been five years ago, when Dario was a freshman in high school and Diego was only in fifth grade. Now they sold drugs and carried weapons, and their colors and symbol were banned from their school. Dario was one of their original members, and kind of in charge.

Mr. Ramos hated it when Dario and his friends came into the shop, but Diego didn't mind as much. Dario looked out for his little brother and their younger sister. Like at the beginning of ninth grade, when Diego sometimes got pushed around and hassled for being a geek, and for taking dance lessons. Diego didn't tell his brother about it, but one of Dario's friends heard someone call him a faggot, and the next week, a couple of Bloody Palms made it clear that Diego was off limits to bullies. No one bothered him after that.

Diego's parents hated that the Bloody Palms existed at all, and hated even more that Dario was one of them. They made it clear that neither Diego, nor his younger sister, Dulcinea, were to have anything to do with the Bloody Palms. When Diego had tentatively asked his brother about it, Dario had laughed. He'd said that Diego was a nerd, and should do his homework and go to college.

Diego had been angry at first, but now he was pretty satisfied. Dario looked out for him, and he had the respect a gang member got without actually being in a gang. That was a pretty good deal, he decided.

* * *

Diego's parents had never been well off, but when he was younger, his mother had worked full time and the family had a little more money. They'd decided to spend it on the kids. Dario had taken a boxing class, and Dulcinea took swimming. Diego had startled everyone by signing up for a ballet/tap class. Dario made fun of him for it, but Dario made fun of him for almost everything, so Diego was practiced at ignoring him.

After a year and a half, Diego's mother lost her job. The one she found to replace it was cleaning houses out in New Jersey. It was a long commute out every day, it didn't pay as well, and she hated it. Their father also worked long hours at a job he hated; he worked for the MTA. The benefits were too good for him to consider looking for other work.

With his mother's new job, the family lost their extra income. Dario had dropped out of boxing willingly, but after another month, Diego and Dulcinea had to drop out, too. Diego was twelve at the time, and the day he turned fourteen, he got his working papers and began applying to jobs. He made just enough to pay for dance class every month. His parents were proud of him for picking it up again. And because Diego paid for it himself, Dario kept his comments about his little brother wanting to be a dancer to himself

The community center where Diego took dance offered a bunch of other classes to people of all ages. One of them was painting, which was where Diego first saw Rob.

Rob Muller was pale skinned, blond haired, bespectacled, and easy going. He loved art. _Loved_ it. Diego didn't know who he was at first, only his name, but saw his paintings hung up in the community center hall. They were all vibrantly colored, which Diego loved. He figured out that the blond boy he sometimes saw was Rob Muller when he saw Rob showing off a painting to a blond woman, probably his mother, in the hall.

By the time Diego started high school, Rob had dropped out of his art class. Diego missed his paintings. But, it turned out, Rob went to his high school. He was a year older than Diego, and easy to pick out because only a few kids at the school where white. Diego wanted to talk to him, to find out if he still painted, but aside from only being a few lockers down in the hall, their paths rarely crossed. And even when they were close to each other at their lockers in the morning, Diego couldn't really think of anything to say.

* * *

Dutchy became a well known name at school in late September of Diego's sophomore year. It appeared painted in bright pink and green on the front of the school one morning, though it was removed the next weekend. It reappeared, this time in blue and yellow, on the school's cement basketball court. After that, it was pink and yellow on another wall. It started showing up on bathroom stalls, drawn in sharpies or paint markers. Each new tag was more intricate than the last.

The school erased the graffiti on the outside, and didn't care too much about what happened on the inside. They handed out fliers about how defacing the school could result in expulsion, but no one got expelled.

No one knew who Dutchy was, though Diego had a pretty good idea.

* * *

The Bloody Palms didn't like Dutchy, Diego realized when he heard Dario talking on the phone one night. Most of the graffiti in the neighborhood was done by the Bloody Palms. It was almost entirely name tags and the gang symbol, which was an open hand with a tear drop in the middle. It was supposed to represent blood, but no one really knew how to draw it.

Diego recognized all the tag names, even though no one used real names. That would have been inviting trouble—angry building owners and police were always on the lookout for kids with spray paint, and giving a name would have just been dumb. Dario was called Bum, because he had dropped out of school in eleventh grade (much to their parents' dismay). His tags were usually the biggest, and he usually signed the warnings.

The warnings were new. There hadn't been any other gangs in the area when the Bloody Palms formed, at least not at their school or on the few blocks where Dario and most of his friends lived. But now there was a second gang, a much more recent one, which called itself Soldier Boys. They quickly went from being just a few kids to being kids who sold pot and carried weapons in the same area as the Bloody Palms. And Dario and his friends wouldn't stand for that; it cut into their profit when it came to selling pot (an activity that Diego's parents didn't know Dario had a hand in, as they still though that the gang was mostly just for fun). And Dario said it was disrespectful.

There had been a few fights, both in school and out. Both gangs had started painting their symbols wherever they could, especially at school. That was when the symbols and colors were banned. Not that it stopped the fights—everyone knew who was in which gang, and there was nothing the school could do in the evenings except make phone calls home to parents who didn't care. The police had gotten involved a couple of times, but the kids refused to say anything about anyone else involved, so nothing had come of it except it made everyone a little nervous.

That was why there were warnings now. Both gangs had quickly painted tags on local buildings, signifying their territory. It kept everyone in their own areas and kept the conflict down, except for when people were trying to start a fight, or were painting over each others' tags. And building owners, no matter how fast they moved, couldn't manage to keep their walls and sidewalks clean. As soon as they got a wall cleaned off, the gang tag would reappear.

The Bloody Palms didn't mind Dutchy at first. No one minded defacing the school, and Diego secretly loved Dutchy's tags. They were colorful and intricate, clearly pieces of art. And he never covered over the gang tags; whoever Dutchy was, he wasn't that dumb. It was only when he started expanding off of the school grounds that the Bloody Palms got annoyed. Not that he covered their tags there, either, but he was clearly operating in their territory, which was disrespectful, and he definitely was taking the attention away from them.

Only a few new tags, gang or art, showed up that winter; it was too cold to spend much time outside. But when spring came and it began to thaw, Dutchy's tags started reappearing. They were spring themed, even, done in yellow and green colors, and showing grass and trees. They got bigger and moved from just tags of his name with a little design to larger pictures.

The first mural showed up on the front of the school in April. It was sports themed, showing kids playing basketball, volleyball, and soccer. The figures were sharp and angular cartoons, with no faces and chunky strands of hair. The people were mostly brown-skinned, but their clothes and the backgrounds were bright. It was five feet tall and four feet wide, with Dutchy's now-familiar signature on the bottom.

Diego stopped and stared at it as he walked in. It was gorgeous.

Rob was already at his locker when Diego walked in. He glanced over and tried to determine for sure if Rob was the mysterious Dutchy. The bright colors matched Rob's paintings, and so did the angular style of cartoon people. He was pretty sure.

He looked over at Rob and opened his mouth to say something, but Rob shut his locker and walked off. Diego shrugged to himself. No big deal.

* * *

Rob came into the bodega one afternoon, a few hours after school ended. Diego looked up and blinked in surprise, but smiled a little. He watched Rob wander to the coolers in the back and pick out a Coke, then a bag of chips. When he brought them to the counter, Diego cleared his throat.

"You're Rob Muller, right?"

Rob raised an eyebrow, but nodded.

"I like your paintings."

"Uh, what?" Rob asked, his gaze flickering around nervously. Diego smiled

"At the community center. I used to see them there. I liked them a lot."

"Oh." Rob exhaled, and smiled a little. "Thanks."

"Why'd you drop out?"

"Well, you know how it is. I could either afford the classes or the paint, and what's the point of taking a class if you can't buy the supplies?"

"Do you still paint?"

"Yeah, sometimes." Rob gave him a curious look, then asked, "You have a locker near mine, right?"

"Yeah, a few down." Diego realized he should probably actually ring up Rob's purchase, but he didn't really want Rob to leave yet.

"And you're one of those Palm kids, right?" Rob continued, sounding a little irritated.

Diego shook his head. "My brother is; I'm not."

"Oh." Rob shrugged. "Whatever."

Diego rang up the soda and chips and slid them into a bag. Rob started to walk away, but Diego cleared his throat. "I like your newer paintings, too," he said.

Rob did a double take, stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. "Thanks," he said.

* * *

Diego figured out why Rob sounded irritated the next day. The beautiful athletic mural, which, rumor had it, the school was going to allow to stay up, had been ruined. The bloody palm logo had been spray painted over it, in blue and red paint, the gang's colors. It was clearly just a throw up, for no reason other than to destroy the painting.

Diego was a little relieved that his brother's signature wasn't on it.

Rob was at his locker again.

"That sucks," Diego said quietly, as he opened his locker. "What happened to your mural, I mean."

"Whose mural?" Rob answered innocently, shutting his locker, and walking away.

* * *

It was war. Unfortunately, it was a war that Dutchy was clearly going to lose.

Diego was fascinated by Dutchy's paintings, even just the signature tags, and did a little research on it. Tags were the basis of street art; throw ups were fast versions of tags to get an artist's names out; pieces were the larger murals, the things that took a lot more time, effort, and risk. They usually required a crew of artists, but Dutchy seemed to be working alone, which made it even more impressive. And burners were the step above that—artistic pieces that were breathtaking, and close to impossible to accomplish.

And slashing someone else's work—painting over it—was the worst disrespect possible. It was bad enough to just slash someone's tag, but to slash a full piece, like the Bloody Palms had done to Dutchy's mural…

Bombing, apparently, was when an artist would tag as much of an area as possible. It was mostly done with throw ups, since they took the least amount of time, and thus could cover an area the fastest.

Dutchy was, apparently, quite pissed off that the Bloody Palms had slashed his piece, not that Diego blamed him. So Dutchy's revenge was to begin bombing the Bloody Palms' territory.

The next Friday night, throw ups with Dutchy's name appeared five different places on the block where Diego lived. They weren't as intricate as his usual tags, probably because he had to be on the lookout for the police _and_ for gang members, but it was a clear statement. Dutchy was there.

_Kilroy was here,_ Diego thought to himself, amused.

But the gang could work faster than Dutchy, and made it hard for him to get in, tag a wall, and get out without being caught. And within a day, every throw up was slashed with the gang logo. And finally, a real warning appeared. It was nothing artistic, but the meaning was clear enough. It was a grave with Dutchy's name on it. And this one was signed by Dario.

* * *

The next time Diego saw Rob, Rob looked like he hadn't gotten much sleep. It was between third and fourth period at their lockers. Rob looked exhausted and had to put in his combination four times to get it right.

"You okay?" Diego asked.

"Well, apparently the Bloody Palms want me dead. Otherwise, yeah, sure." Rob reached into his locker and then pulled away a moment later; there was a metallic crashing sound inside. "Shit, fucking cans."

"Should you have those in school?" Diego asked, glancing into Rob's locker and seeing three cans of spray paint.

"No, but I didn't have time to get home before school started."

"You were out painting?"

Rob shrugged. "Nothing I'd classify as art. Just trying to get a couple tags up."

"You shouldn't…" He glanced around. "Dario's pissed off. I don't get the big deal, but I guess he means business."

"Yeah, I know. I just finished my last one right before school, and I guess I'll keep off their turf from now on. And piss of some other gang for awhile." Rob snorted. "It just… _ught._ What they do isn't _art._"

Diego shrugged. "Guess not."

"I hope you get a chance to see it before they slash it," Rob said, and straightened up. He started to close his locker, then froze. "Shit."

"Huh?"

Diego followed his gaze and saw that the Principal, Vice-Principal, and Disciplinary Aid were stomping down the hall towards them. Which didn't necessarily mean that they were searching for whoever had been defacing the school, but if they did stop to check Rob's locker…

"Here, give the cans to me," Diego hissed quickly.

Rob glanced down the hall, turned his back to the oncoming authorities, and passed the three cans to Diego. Diego shut them in his locker and Rob slammed his own shut. Diego threw Rob one last glance and started off down the hall, while Rob waited. And sure enough, the Principal had Rob open his locker and searched it, but there was nothing to find.

That afternoon, Diego discovered what Rob had wanted him to see. Painted on the red brick side of the bodega was the message, "It's art, fuckers." It was done in Dutchy's distinct, slanted, three-dimensional block writing; it was all neon colors, with his tag at the bottom.

He smiled a little, though he stopped when he got inside and Mr. Ramos greeted him with an abrasive, anti-paint scrub and a fume filtering mask. He was still scrubbing away the fancy lettering three hours later, when Rob walked up and regarded him critically.

"It's not my fault!" Diego said immediately. "It's my job."

"Hey, I get it, no problem," Rob said casually. "Did they see it?"

"Yeah, Dario saw it," Diego said. "He's pissed off, too. Be careful."

"Like I said, that was my last one in this area. I don't need my work getting slashed all over. Anyway, I mostly just wanted to ask you when I can get my paint back."

"Oh, right," Diego said. "After school tomorrow, no problem."

"Thanks for helping me out. You're one of the Palms, though; how come they didn't even glance at you?"

"I'm _not_ one of the Palms. My brother is," Diego explained again. "We don't have much in common, but I hear him talking."

"Still," Rob said.

Diego shrugged. "I'm a pretty good student, I guess. I've never really been in trouble."

"Lucky thing for me," Rob said. "Anyway, thanks a lot."

"No problem." Diego shot him a quick smile.

* * *

As Rob had promised, he kept his art away from blocks that had the Bloody Palms' tag anywhere. He kept it up at school, though, despite the fact that it always got slashed by the Palms and then erased or painted over by the school. Mostly he just tagged, although the last weekend before school ended for the summer, another full piece mural appeared on one of the side walls, outside the gymnasium.

It was a painting of kids in a park—playing Frisbee, running with dogs, on the swings. It was far longer than it was high, and so detailed it must have taken more than one night to do.

Diego almost missed the dancers. They were in the background of the painted field, standing in a row, bent into ballet style positions. They were girls of several different ethnicities, though they all wore the same dark blue leotards, and were done in Rob's angular, faceless style. Except one.

One of the dancers was clearly a boy, with brown skin, brown hair, and a dark blue bandana. Like all the figures, he didn't have much of a face, but unlike the others, he had a slight smile.

Diego reached up to his forehead and ran a finger across the fabric of his own dark blue bandana. He blinked, then blushed, then hurried in to class.

But just because Dutchy had kept his art away from the Bloody Palms' turf didn't mean they'd forgiven him. The next day, it was covered in Bloody Palms tags. Diego sighed. It just seemed like a waste.

* * *

Diego spent most of his days in the summer splitting time between his job (he was glad for some extra hours, because it meant extra cash, something his parents couldn't provide despite their best efforts) and his dance classes. The community center was a few stops down on the subway.

The subway was divided gang territory, like the school. Everyone needed to use it, and everyone tried to claim it, but no one could afford to stay away from it. The large brick wall between the northeast and northwest entrances was always covered in graffiti. Some of it was gang stuff, but most of it was random tags that weren't too notable. And since it wasn't clearly defined territory, everyone felt they had a right to it. Even Rob.

It was late July when Rob finally got caught by the Bloody Palms.

Diego didn't see how it started, though he'd seen a couple of Rob's Dutchy tags on the walls and down by the tracks. But late one evening, after spending the day at the community center practicing for a dance recital, he was tiredly walking up to the ground. He really just wanted to get home and shower to ease some of his aching muscles. He loved dance, he truly did, but his instructor liked to push the students, and summer sessions left Diego exhausted.

Dario and three of his friends were up at the exit with Rob, in a tight circle around him. One of them had pinned Rob's arms behind his back, and Rob was bleeding pretty badly. Behind them, on the wall, was a half-finished Dutchy tag.

A couple other people walked past, very intent on not seeing what was going on. But Diego had no real choice.

He ran to his brother and grabbed his arm. "Dario! Dario, stop—stop!"

Dario shrugged him off, and Rob looked up. His glasses were bent and when he moved his head they tumbled off. Diego winced, seeing him.

"Diego, what?" Dario demanded.

"Stop, he's my friend. Dario, please." Diego stared at him plaintively.

"He's the asshole who's been tagging us," Dario answered.

"Not in months," Diego said. "He just likes to paint. He didn't mean anything by it. He didn't know you'd get so mad until it was too late!"

"He should've known." Dario turned away from Diego, back to Rob.

"Dario!" Diego yelled again, squirming past the gang members to stand between his brother and Rob. "He's my _friend._ Please, Dario. _Please._"

"You are such a fag," Dario muttered, and shoved his brother a little. "Get out of

here, go home."

"No," Diego snapped, and shoved back.

"This isn't your business," Dario said firmly, ignoring the shove. "It's about respect. Get lost."

"Respect?" Diego repeated. "Like you know anything about respect!"

The other gang members were shooting each other looks, startled and confused. They all knew Diego, of course, but hadn't ever seen him as anyone confrontational. If he'd been more aggressive, he'd probably have been in the gang.

"Diego, I'm telling you to get out of here!"

"No." Diego stood up straight, ignoring the looks he was getting from his brother's friends. He just glared at Dario. "Respect means you don't call your own brother a fag."

Diego stared at Dario. And Dario flinched. They were still brothers, after all. And Dario looked out for his little brother.

"He just likes to paint," Diego said firmly, sensing his brother's resolve cracking. "He never touched one of your tags. You slashed him first. He wasn't disrespecting you until you started it."

Dario finally rolled his eyes and glared past Diego. "Stay the hell out of our territory," he snarled at Rob.

"S-sure," Rob stuttered. "No problem. Was doing that anyway. Yeaaaaah…"

"Let him go," Dario said, not taking his gaze away from Rob. "This is your warning, _Dutchy_."

Then he turned to stalk off, his friends following. And as soon as they let him go, Rob staggered back against the wall. Diego heard him sucking in deep breaths, and stooped to pick up Rob's glasses. Rob accepted them from him, wincing a little as he put them on his face.

"Aw, Jesus," Rob mumbled, and reached up to wipe blood from his face. "Oh fucking man… Jesus." He took another deep breath and looked at Diego through his crooked glasses. "Thanks, man."

"No problem. Are you okay?"

"Not really. Shit." Rob sank to the ground, as dirty as it was, and sat there with his knees pulled up to his chest. Diego only hesitated for a moment before sitting next to him. "Mom's gonna freak about my glasses. And I'm flat broke, and those fuckers took my paint… and _shit,_ my good spray caps were in there, too. It's gonna take me months to save up for more of those."

"I'm sorry," Diego said. "Dario… I mean, he's an asshole sometimes."

"No kidding. I didn't realize when you said your brother was one of them that you meant, like… seriously in charge of them."

"I thought if I told you, you probably wouldn't like me too much."

"Yeah, well… nah. You know. You just saved my ass, so whatever."

"I'm really sorry about… everything. The slashing and now this."

"I shouldn't have told them off. It just blows. The school would totally have let my pieces stay up. They were good, damn it all."

"Yeah," Diego agreed. "I mean, I really liked them."

"Too bad your brother didn't. Is he gonna be mad at you?"

"Probably for awhile. He'll get over it."

"Thanks," Rob said. "I mean…things could've been worse if you hadn't come along. If they didn't listen to you."

"Dario has to, he's my brother." Diego shrugged, uncomfortable. "I mean, he wouldn't hurt me. And I think he's afraid I'll tell Mom and Dad about some of the stuff he does that they don't know about. So… whatever, I mean, he'll be annoyed but he'll get over it."

"Is he gonna, like, come after me?"

"I don't know." Diego sighed. "I'm sorry, I really don't know."

Rob took a deep breath. "Well, it was nice while it lasted. Thanks for not ratting me out or anything."

"No problem. I mean, I really like your art. You're really talented."

A ghost of a smile crossed Rob's lips. "Yeah, I am pretty good. I guess I'll have to improve someone else's neighborhood for awhile."

They sat in quiet for a moment, before Rob struggled to his feet. He winced. "Ught, I've got to go get some Tylenol or something. Oh, man, the fuckers took my mask, too. Good ones don't come cheap, damn it."

"Do you want me to walk you home?" Diego asked, standing. "You look kind of… out of it."

"Sure, yeah, probably a good idea," Rob agreed. "Thanks, man."

"No problem." They headed back into the subway.

* * *

The summer was long and hot. Diego's dance class had its first summer show at the end of July, and he was pleasantly surprised to see Rob, still sporting a few fading bruises, standing in the back of the crowd. But Dario was there too, so Rob didn't stick around. Just sent Diego a quick wave and ducked out.

The hot weather made everyone's temper short. Dario was still irritated with Diego; their parents were irritated with their jobs; Dulcinea was irritated because she was a teenage girl, and that seemed to be her normal state.

Diego thought it was probably just the family, but it was the customers in the store, too. People were cranky. Everyone wanted to go on vacation, or at least go for a swim, but the neighborhood's only pool was Soldier Boys territory. So Dario's friends hung around and got into trouble.

The first major gang fight was that week. Luckily, there were no weapons involved. But three kids ended up in the hospital, and two were arrested. Both of the ones who were brought up on charges were Soldier Boys, including their second in command. Which meant that the fight hadn't stopped anything, just made people angrier.

Diego tried not to worry about it, even though he knew how pissed off Dario was. And when he saw the graffiti that began to build up on every wall, gang markers, he just sighed. Rob was right, that wasn't art. It was all eyesores.

* * *

The second week of August, with school looming right around the corner, Diego spent more time at the community center. He wanted to get as much dance in before school took over his life again, and the center didn't mind having kids in to practice if they didn't cause trouble.

He left around nine, when they wanted to lock the building. He felt pretty good, tired and worn but not bad. And so he wasn't really his sharpest when he started towards the subway stop.

Diego didn't see anyone following him. He didn't realize that the press of people around him meant more than just a normal New York evening. He didn't realize that anything bad was happening until the pipe hit his shoulders and he toppled forward onto the sidewalk, still two blocks from the subway entrance. He landed on his stomach and rolled over to see a group staring down at him. He swallowed hard. Soldier Boys.

Diego wasn't a member of the Bloody Palms, but he was Dario's little brother. Dario looked out for him; everyone knew that. But Dario wasn't there.

He yelled, but no one stopped to help.

* * *

The hand that shook him awake was pale white. Diego groaned, wondering why he hurt so badly. Practice hadn't been that bad, and…

And then it came back to him. He winced away from the hand that was shaking him and blinked, trying to make things make sense.

Rob was standing above him. "Diego… Diego, are you okay? Diego?"

"Rob?"

"Oh, thank god. I was seriously about to call 9-1-1, I thought you might be dead or something."

Diego didn't feel quite up to saying that, considering how he felt, he almost wished he was. Instead, he tried to push himself up so he was sitting. Except he found himself dizzy and started to fall. He'd have hit the pavement again, but Rob caught him.

"Whoa there, Diego. I think I might have to call the hospital still. Damn, man, who did this to you?"

"Soldier Boys," Diego croaked.

"Shit, no kidding. Jesus, man, you look awful. I mean… Okay, so, you want me to call the hospital? You need it, seriously. You look… Oh, man."

"No," Diego muttered. "No, I just gotta get home."

"Uh… okay. Here. Let me help you." Rob reached over and put an arm behind Diego's shoulders, propping him up. It was also where Diego had first been knocked with the pipe, and he winced.

"Shit," Diego mumbled to himself. "What the hell am I going to tell my parents? Shit… Damn it." Diego tried to catch his breath but couldn't; his chest hurt. He hurt all over, actually. And his stuff was gone, and his parents would flip out, and his brother would do something stupid if he found out, and…

He felt impossibly lost and dizzy and alone, and then Rob's hand gripped his shoulder firmly. He reached out for Rob desperately, caught his hand.

"Okay, Diego, here's the thing. I'm gonna call your folks and then take you to the hospital. Ambulances are expensive so we'll see if we can make it on the subway, but trust me. You need to go. What's your number?"

Diego groaned and mumbled his family's phone number; he heard the beeping of a phone entering it in. He wanted to take the phone and talk to his family himself, but really didn't feel up to it. "Hello? Is Mrs.… Is your mom there? No? Uh, okay, how about your brother, Dario? Okay, can I talk to him, please? It's, um, it's a friend of Diego. Thanks.

"Hi, I—Hi. Look, I… I'm Rob Muller… Uh, Dutchy. I—Wait, don't hang up! Please, this is important. I just… I just found Diego, he's… he was beaten up pretty badly. He needs to go to a hospital. I… Okay, one sec."

Rob held his cell up to Diego's face, and Diego mumbled, "Dario?"

"Diego, what happened?"

"I… was mugged, okay? I—"

"Who was it?"

"Dario, it wasn't… I don't feel good."

"Damn it, Diego! Who was it?"

"I need to go to the hospital…"

"Diego—Diego, okay, listen to me," Dario said. "You go to the hospital. I'll take Dulci and meet you there, and leave a note for Mom and Dad. We'll all be there as soon as we can, okay? Put your friend back on."

Diego looked up at Rob, who took the phone back.

"Okay… Okay," Rob said eventually. "Sure, no problem. Yeah, I'll stay with him. No, I didn't see… I just found him. I… He was only a few blocks from my apartment, I was just getting a Coke, and I saw—he was lying there… Probably only a couple minutes. I think. I didn't see… Okay, yeah, we'll talk when you get there. Bye."

"What's he want?" Diego mumbled, as Rob tucked his arm back around Diego's torso and tried to help him up.

"He wants to know who did this. I think he figured it out, but…"

"I don't want him fighting anymore," Diego mumbled into Rob's shoulder, as Rob propped him up.

"You can't control your brother, man," Rob said, and slowly helped Diego to his feet. Diego felt dizzy and sick at the motion and groaned aloud; Rob just stepped closer to him and let Diego bury his head on his shoulder until he felt better.

They made their way to the subway slowly, and Rob finessed the MTA worker into letting them in free through the service entrance, as Diego was heading to the ER and his wallet, with his metro card, had been stolen. On the subway, they sat close together, Rob keeping a protective arm around Diego's shoulders and a wary eye out for any more trouble.

"I don't feel good," Diego finally said quietly. "I think I swallowed blood. And my head hurts… And my leg, I can't put any weight on it, that's really bad…"

"Shh, we're just a few more stops, okay? We'll take you to the ER. You'll be fine."

Diego inhaled slowly, sounded totally exhausted and a little bit broken. Rob reached for his hand and gave it a slight pat.

"What am I going to tell my parents?" Diego moaned. "And my bag—all my good dance stuff. Shit, those shoes are expensive and I'd have to break in a new pair anyway, and… oh, man, I just… I just…"

"Hey, I know," Rob reminded him quietly. "This would've happened to me last month if you hadn't been there.

"Thank you," Diego said softly.

"I didn't do anything," Rob answered.

"You found me." Diego took another one of those gasping breaths, and leaned closer to Rob. And Rob let him, and gave his hand another quick pat.

Diego wasn't feeling any better by the time they finally trudged into the ER. Rob helped him to the desk and said he'd been mugged and beaten pretty badly, and that he was a friend who'd found him. Diego didn't say much, but he did say his dad had insurance through the MTA; the nurse seemed to be satisfied with that, and led him to an examination room to take some X-rays and find out what was wrong.

It was half an hour before Dario came in, Dulcinea behind him. Diego tried to smile, but his face was a mess of bruises, and it hurt too badly. "I left Mom and Dad a note," Dario said. "They'll be here as soon as they can, okay?"

Diego nodded.

"Are you okay?" Dulci asked quietly.

"I've been better… I'm fine now," he said. "Just kind of sore. And tired. They said nothing's broken, but I've got a couple sprains and needed a couple stitches. And they gave me an ice pack," he held it up to show them, "and said I'll be fine. They want me to fill out a police report when Mom or Dad gets here."

Dario nodded. "You got mugged, huh?"

"Yeah."

"They beat you up pretty bad for guys who just wanted to steal your wallet," Dario said.

"They took my dance stuff," Diego said.

Dario nodded and shook Dulcinea's shoulder. "Dulci, go get us all some sodas, okay?" He pulled out his wallet and handed it to her.

"I don't know where the machine is," she said.

"Ask Rob, he had a Coke when we got in," Dario said.

"But—"

"Dulci, just _do_ it," Dario snapped. "Get yourself some candy too."

Dulci gave him a skeptical look, but finally shrugged and left the room. Dario shut the door after her and moved to sit down on Diego's bed. "So you want to give me names, Diego?"

"No," Diego said. "It was just some guys. They mugged me."

"You think I believe that?"

"They took my wallet. My ATM card, my metro card… My dance stuff."

"Hey, don't worry about your dance stuff, we can replace it."

"It's expensive."

"And we'll call the bank, have them cancel your old card and get you a new one."

"Dario… it was just some guys. I'm not hurt that bad. Okay?"

"It's not okay," Dario said. "You're my brother. And I know it was Soldier Boys. They told me they'd be coming after someone soon."

"What?"

"They said… some shit about coming after people close to me. I didn't think it was serious." Dario stared down at the floor. "Shit, Diego. I'm sorry. I didn't think… you're not even a Palm. I'm so _sorry,_ Diego. I…" He trailed off helplessly and looked at his brother.

It was the first time Diego and Dario had looked each other in the eye in quite awhile. The first time since Diego had signed up for his dance class, and Dario assumed what Diego still had never acknowledged as fact, and his family wasn't brave enough to ask about.

"Is your leg okay?" Dario asked, when the silence felt too heavy to stand.

"Sprained," Diego mumbled. "I've got crutches for a couple weeks."

"What about your dance thing?"

"I won't be able to," Diego said.

"Oh, god, Diego," Dario said.

"Yeah," Diego answered.

They sat in silence again, until Dulci came back into the room, Rob following her. She was carrying sodas, and Rob had some snack foods. "Thought you might be hungry," he said, sitting on the bed on Diego's other side. "Check it out. Doritos, pretzels, Skittles… they didn't have anything healthy in the machine."

"Thanks, Rob," Diego said quietly.

"Mom and Dad should be here soon," Dulci added.

Rob handed Diego the candy. "So, the way I see it, with the pity/bravery factor with the crutches, combined with your brave struggle to resume dancing, you're gonna have the girls panting after you. Lucky dog," Rob said.

Diego wanted to smile, but couldn't quite. He shrugged a little. "Lucky me."

"Lucky girls," Rob answered, and gave Diego a playful shove. "Anyway, just so you know, the center is only, like, a block from my apartment, if you ever want company walking to the subway or anything."

"Good call, Rob," Dario said, nodding.

"I don't need a babysitter," Diego said.

Rob shrugged. "Sure, fine."

"Anyway, once school starts and I can walk again, I'll be too busy and I'll be back to once a week…"

"It really sucks, about your leg…"

"Hey." Dario stood up. "Rob, shut up. His leg's gonna be fine."

Rob blinked and nodded. "Well, yeah. Of course it will. I didn't mean that, just… Well, it sucks that this happened." Rob finished talking in a voice much lower than the one he'd started out with, and stared at Dario. Dario stared back.

"Just watch what you say, _Dutchy,"_ Dario finally snapped.

Rob shrugged. "You got cable in this room, Diego?" he asked, pointedly ignoring Dario. Diego watched the two of them ignore each other for the next hour, though they both stayed in the room and waited with Diego for his parents to arrive.

It was quite late when Diego finally limped on crutches out of the hospital with his family and Rob, who cleared his throat. "Uh, well… 'night, man," he said.

Diego caught his eye and nodded a little. "Mom, can Rob spend the night?" he asked quickly.

"Sure," his mother said.

"Mama, I'm going to a friend's," Dario announced quickly.

"Dario, I don't know if—"

"Mom, I'm _going,"_ Dario said. "Diego's fine now, he's with people. I was only supposed to be babysitting Dulci until he got home _anyway."_

* * *

Dario and Diego shared a room, and with Dario at a friend's house, Rob was able to take Dario's bed. They turned the light out almost the moment they got home, since Diego was pretty exhausted. But an hour later, the door opened. Dario walked in, carrying a plastic bag that clinked metallically as he moved.

"I thought you were at a friend's…?" Diego mumbled.

"Yeah, I was, I'm going again. Just dropping this off." He tossed the bag on to his bed, where it hit Rob square in the chest. Rob let out a strained _oof_ noise, and as Dario left the room again, Diego reached for the light.

Rob sat up and opened the bag, then said, "Holy _shit,_ man."

"What?" Diego asked suspiciously.

"My nozzles!"

"Your what? I'm not really awake… what?"

"When he jumped me, he stole all my good spray can nozzles. They're so much better than the shit ones that come with the cans, and expensive, and I was saving to get some new ones, but if these aren't _mine,_ they're just like mine were, so…" He looked over at Diego. "So what does this mean?"

"I guess that Dario's a little sorry," Diego said, though even he wasn't sure he believed it. He'd never seen Dario be really sorry before.

Guilty, though. That was another matter entirely. But either way, he shrugged and hit the light, not sure why his brother would decide to practically give his permission for Rob to resume painting.

* * *

The first day of school was followed by another gang fight. Four kids in the hospital (three Palms, one Soldier Boy), three arrested (all Solider Boys). There was an all school assembly about violence and how to spot gang members (and the necessity of reporting them) the next day. It was nothing every student didn't already know.

Neither gang could retaliate against the school directly, but they _did_ make it clear what they thought of snitches. One of the Soldier Boys was turned in by an anonymous student. Two days later, the allegedly anonymous student was mugged and beaten on his way to school.

No one turned in any more members.

Three weeks later, there was another fight. Dario was arrested. His parents paid his bail and the judge let him off with a light sentence. Everyone was on edge, and Diego spent as little time at home as possible.

* * *

Graffiti was really becoming a problem. It seemed like every wall was covered in it, despite the school's best efforts. Once upon a time, Diego would have laughed at the idea of kids breaking into the school, but that had to be what was going on. Every day, it seemed, another tag appeared, or was slashed; they were all coming so fast the school couldn't get them cleaned up in time. Eventually, they basically gave up.

The only bright spot was the Dutchy tags. Where everything else was ugly and garish, the Dutchy tags were, well, art. And now they were only being slashed by Soldier Boys, not Bloody Palms. They were still being slashed, though. But Rob seemed to take that in stride.

Diego asked him why he bothered, if he knew his work was going to get painted over and destroyed. Rob said it was because he just liked painting. Creating art. Diego asked why graffiti and not the kind he'd been doing down at the community center.

Rob said it was because graffiti was alive.

* * *

There were three openly gay students at Diego's school, and a few others (including Diego) who had never _mentioned_ their sexuality, who never said anything, but who everyone assumed were gay. On a Monday in the middle of October, all of them came in to school to find the word _fag_ painted on their lockers.

Diego grit his teeth and slammed his locker shut, to find Rob standing next to him, looking concerned.

"You okay?"

Diego shrugged. "Which is worse, getting beaten up because Dario's a Palm, or getting beaten up because I'm gay?"

"You are?" Rob asked.

"I don't know," Diego said. "Does it matter?"

Rob blinked. "Yeah, a little."

Diego looked stricken for a second, then shrugged. "At least I know you didn't tag my locker. It would be _art_ if you'd done it."

"I didn't mean _that—"_ Rob started, but the bell rang, and Diego turned and strode off to class.

* * *

Tuesday morning, those same students found their lockers were painted again. This time, the designs were featureless cartoons and bright colors. They were unsigned, but everyone knew Dutchy's style.

Most importantly, the cartoons completely covered the previous graffiti.

Diego stared at his, then glanced over to see Rob was standing at his own locker, waiting silently. "Thanks," Diego murmured.

"No problem," Rob said.

* * *

Two weeks before Thanksgiving, Rob and Diego were sitting around Diego's house. His parents weren't home yet, and he and Dario were supposed to be keeping an eye on Dulci. Dario had gone out, though. ("To see some guys about some business," he'd said ominously. "You watch Dulci, I'll be late.")

Diego was doing his math homework, sitting cross-legged on the couch; Rob stretched out next to him, sketching on a pad of paper. Dulci was in her room, chattering on the phone with friends.

"So why Dutchy?" Diego asked, as he carefully erased a few digits and redid a problem.

"What?"

"Why did you choose Dutchy for your tags?"

"It's a family thing. Easier to spell than Deutsch. We're German. Anyway, my grandmother used to call me Dutchy or something like that; I don't really remember. Mostly I just liked it, and figured it would be pretty hard to put together."

"Okay," Diego said.

"Why?"

"Just curious."

Rob laughed a little, and elbowed him. "I'm thinking of doing a real piece soon, but I'll probably need help. You want to?"

"I'm not much of an artist."

"So? All you have to do is color inside the lines." He jostled Diego's arm again. "Come on, it'll be fun, and only a little illegal! Maybe doing something badass will get those Soldier Boys off your back, Bumlets."

"Shut up," Diego answered angrily.

Bumlets was what the Soldier Boys were calling him, now; it was a mixed reference to needing his brother's protection, and (judging by a lot of anonymous notes that were now showing up in his locker, and muttered comments in the hallway) his sexuality and alleged predilection towards anal. School was becoming increasingly hellish for him; he refused to tell Dario what was happening, because he didn't want his brother in any more fights—and anyway, since he'd been arrested, Dario had seemed to have a lot more on his mind than just looking out for his brother. A few of the other Palms were still keeping an eye on him, but there were teachers in the halls all the time, listening for any hints of gang activity, so no one could do much about it without getting themselves in a lot of hot water, too. Since the insults weren't technically gang-related, the already over-stressed teachers let them slide, mostly. So no one stopped the Solider Boys from harassing him, and since they'd decided he was an easy target (and that harassing him was the same as taking potshots at Dario), it didn't look like things were going to get any better, either.

"I didn't mean anything by it," Rob said quickly. "Just that you always look so goddamn miserable in school now. I wish they'd get off your back."

"Yeah, me too." Diego took a deep breath. "But they won't, so I'll just deal with it. I don't want to talk about it, okay?'

"Sure," Rob said. "But you know I'm here, right? If you ever want to—"

"I don't."

"Okay," Rob said. He flipped the page in his sketchbook and began to draw something else. Diego glanced over, interested; he still enjoyed Rob's art. It was much different to see it as just graphite on white paper than with the colors he used in his paintings, though. It made everything seem classier, somehow.

But Rob didn't want classy art. That belonged in a museum, he'd finally explained to Diego. He wanted _living_ art. Art of the people. Diego still didn't really get it, but he still enjoyed looking at it.

An hour later, Diego was finishing up his homework and Rob was still sketching. Dulci had wandered into the room and was sitting on the floor in front of them, watching TV. A buzzer sounded, and Diego blinked. That was someone asking to get buzzed in to the building.

He shrugged and walked to the doorway, hit the button to talk. "Hello?"

"This is the police. We need to speak with the Ramirez family. It's very, very important."

Diego swallowed hard and looked at Dulci and Rob. His hand was almost shaking as he pressed the button to let them into the building, and unlocked the door to the apartment for them.

Two officers walked in. One was African-American; his skin was dark and his hair was gray. The other was much younger, white, and had red hair and freckles. He didn't look like he belonged in Diego's neighborhood at all. They both stood silently for a moment. "Are your parents home?" the older one asked.

Diego shook his head no. "I'm baby sitting," he said, and gestured towards Dulci. "What's going on?"

The officers exchanged glances. "Is there a way to reach your parents?"

"Not… not really," Diego said. "Dad should be home soon. Mama gets home later, it's a couple hours for her to get here, and she doesn't have a cell phone or anything."

"Do you know where your brother went tonight?" the older one asked. The older cop was doing all the talking. The younger one was standing stock still, like he was terrified, and shot scared glances around the small apartment, especially at Dulci.

"No," Diego said softly. "He didn't say."

The two cops looked at each other desperately, and finally, the older one said, "Can I talk with you alone for a minute?"

"Sure," Diego said, starting to feel more scared. He knew he hadn't done anything wrong, that the cops weren't after him; but he also didn't want to betray his brother. He swallowed hard and looked over at the couch.

Rob stood up. "Hey, kid, why don't you show me your room?" he said to Dulci, offering her a hand up.

"But—"

"Dulci, go on," Diego said.

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. She looked scared too, as she walked into her room. Rob followed her and shut the door behind them.

The older policeman began speaking again, now in very hushed tones. "We need someone to come to the hospital with us," he said. "Your brother…"

"Is he okay?" Diego asked, panic now beginning to compete with his nerves for control of his body. His heartbeat sped up, he felt himself sweat, and he remembered what it was like to wake up feeling nothing but pain. He found that he wanted to be ill very badly, even before he heard what the officer said next.

"No, he's… I'm afraid he's dead, son."

* * *

The younger officer stayed with Rob and Dulci, though the older one got the unpleasant job of explaining to them what he'd just told Diego. He and Diego left together, leaving Ducly behind them, sobbing. They wanted Diego to identify the body, make sure they knew for sure who he was, and to ask if Diego had any idea who might have done it.

Diego had some ideas. He knew who the kids who'd beaten him were; he knew who the ones who shoved him in the hallways were. Who the Soldier Boys were was no real secret, anyway. It was just that no one had ever been willing to rat them out.

He felt sick when he saw his brother's body. He'd been stabbed, but he'd been in a fight first. The blood had been washed away, but the bruises were obvious. Diego barely managed to nod that yes, it was Dario, before he threw up.

The police began to ask him questions, and Diego thought of the kid who'd been hospitalized for snitching. He thought of the pipe cracking against his back, and having to watch a dance recital he couldn't participate in. He thought of the graffiti on his locker and the names people called him right in front of teachers.

He thought of Dario's body. He gave them names.

In an hour, his parents were both there. Rob was still at his house, watching Dulci; they didn't want her to see Dario's body until it was dressed for the funeral. His mother cried, his father went pale and didn't say anything. Diego broke down and sobbed in his father's arms, and told them and the police everything he'd sworn he wouldn't. About the drugs Dario sold, the kids who he'd had beaten. Who the other ranking members of the Bloody Palms were.

The police told him to be careful. He'd done the right thing, of course, but he'd pissed off a lot of people, too. They wished him luck and dropped the family off at home, heading off to the station to draw up warrants and begin tracking down the kids responsible for this.

* * *

The phone rang on Monday morning, early. It was the principal of Diego's school, telling him not to come in. They didn't think it would be safe. That night, Rob came by with his homework for the week.

"You okay?" Rob asked quietly, even though they both knew it was a stupid question.

"Yeah," Diego said, even though they both knew it was a lie.

* * *

Rob showed up at Diego's apartment again that night, much later. He was carrying a large backpack over one shoulder. "Come on," he said.

"I don't want to go out anywhere," Diego said.

"This is important." Rob unzipped the bag and Diego heard the clank he'd come to recognize as Rob's paint cans knocking together. Rob pulled out a sketchbook and flipped through it, then handed it to Diego when he'd found the page he wanted.

It was drawn in colored pencils, probably to represent the paint colors he'd use. It was clearly a mural, a full piece. It was of a grave with the Bloody Palm logo on it, and had a family—mother, father, sister—standing behind it. Another person, presumably a brother (wearing a dark blue bandana, no less) was kneeling by the grave, holding a flower.

Where there would normally be a signature, there was cleaner text: _Where will it end?_

"I can't do it alone," Rob said. "I want to put it on the wall of your bodega. I want the Palms to see it, too."

Diego stared at the sketch, his hands shaking. He didn't think he'd be much good for painting. But the words echoed through his mind. _Where will it end?_

"Let's do it," he said.

They were still painting at five in the morning when Mr. Ramos came to open the shop. He looked at them disapprovingly, then looked at the painting. He sighed.

"It can stay up," he said.

"Thank you," Diego answered.

* * *

Friday evening, Diego's father announced he had been hired at a new job. He'd gotten a license to operate a bus; he'd been training for that, even before Dario died. Now he had it and was hired by NJ Transit. His route would be relatively close to where their mother worked.

It would make life easier for everyone, really, if they just moved. Out of their neighborhood, out of New York. To the suburbs. If they were there, his mother could try and find full time work—she wouldn't have such a long commute anymore. They couldn't afford one of the really _nice_ neighborhoods, but they could just about scrape by. They'd begun looking at houses and apartments already, in areas where they'd looked at schools. They weren't the best schools the area had to offer, but they had one major selling point: no gang violence had ever been reported.

They'd pick a place to live within a few days and move over Christmas break. Diego's school had agreed to let him take his finals for the semester as take homes, without showing up for class. He'd be able to start the new semester at a new school, with a clean slate.

He called Rob to let him know, but got his voicemail: "Hey, this is Rob. I'm probably out painting or smoking somewhere, unless you're the cops or my mom, in which case, I'm out volunteering with my church youth group. Leave a message."

His voice broke when he said, "Hey, Rob. Call me, okay?"

* * *

They had three weeks to pack up everything they owned. It wasn't as hard as it might have been, though; the apartment was small, and though it was cluttered, they really didn't have as much _stuff_ as most families. Diego's mother kept saying she was looking forward to living somewhere with more space.

It was harder than it should have been, though. They had to pack up all of Dario's things and figure out what to do with them. And even the things that weren't his brought up memories. With all of his possessions disappearing into boxes, home alone all day because he'd been banished from school, and most of his friends too scared to talk to him (the remaining Palms _and_ Solider Boys were on the warpath at school, Rob told him) Diego had never felt so alone.

He wanted his brother. He wanted his friends. He wanted his life to be back the way it had been. He just wanted something _good._

* * *

Rob showed up to hang out the last week before they moved with a black eye and a split lip. He refused to talk about it, but said he wasn't sure it was a good idea for him to visit anymore.

Diego nodded. He understood. Everyone knew he and Rob were friends, and probably that Rob was the one bringing him his schoolwork. That made him a target.

Two days beforehand, someone had thrown a rock through Diego's window. No one could get to him beyond that, since he didn't leave the house. The Palms were pissed off, but they had some kind of honor code. Diego didn't understand it, but knew they wouldn't break in to get to him. The Soldier Boys couldn't really even get to his apartment; it was in the middle of Bloody Palm territory. So he should have been safe inside.

Diego's father installed a new glass pane, and promised it was okay. It wasn't his fault, and that it didn't matter, because in just a few days, they'd be gone forever. Away from the memories, away from the violence. Diego was looking forward to it, really. Dulci was upset, though; she didn't want to lose her friends. But then, her friends weren't the ones getting beaten up.

* * *

Diego called Rob the night before the movers were coming, hoping they could get together to say goodbye. It was funny, he thought, how he and Rob had become so close. Diego had always had a few friends, though he was never really popular—that was Dario and his gang, or Dulci and her friends. He was an awkward middle child, who'd rather read and do schoolwork than go out anyway.

But he'd met Rob and now, even when most of his friends were too scared to talk to him, Rob was the one he could rely on. Rob had stood up for him; Rob had helped him when he could barely walk; Rob had been there when Dario died. Dulci would miss her friends, but Diego wouldn't, not really. He'd just miss Rob.

He dialed Rob's number, but just got the message, and sighed. He supposed it wasn't fair to ask Rob to risk anything for him anymore. Rob had risked enough, just with that painting. Which remained up—the Palms wouldn't tag it, not when it was (kind of) an homage to their fallen leader, and the Solider Boys didn't dare tag anything that far into Palm territory. True to his word, Mr. Ramos hadn't reported them, and hadn't scrubbed it clean.

Diego found he didn't care too much where it ended for everyone else, not anymore. For him, he was just counting down hours until he was gone, and it was over for him.

Dulci broke into the apartment, wide-eyed. She'd been out with friends, saying goodbye one last time. Diego and his parents both stared at her, afraid of why she was so frantic.

But she grabbed Diego's arm and pulled him up. "You have to come _see,_" she declared. "Come on, Diego! You have to see this!"

She wouldn't say anything else about it, but he and his parents followed her dubiously. She led them to the subway she'd just come from, but not into the actual terminal. Just outside, the wall between the northeast and northwest entrances. The one where Rob had been painting the previous summer, when Dario finally caught him.

No one had caught him this time.

A full piece covered most of the wall. It was a simple painting, though, relative to some of the stuff Rob had done before. It was of two boys, arms wrapped around each other. One with dark skin and a blue bandana, his head resting on the shoulder of a pale, blond figure. Rob never painted facial features (Diego asked him why, once, and he'd said mostly because he sucked at it), but the blond had glasses.

The background was a New York skyline, stylized. Above them was the text, _I'll miss you._

Below them was the text, _I love you._

Next to that was a tag. It didn't say Dutchy, though. It said Rob.

* * *

"Hey, this is Rob. I'm probably out painting or smoking somewhere, unless you're the cops or my mom, in which case, I'm out volunteering with my church youth group. Leave a message."

"Rob, I… I love you, too."

* * *

Rob showed up at their apartment an hour before the moving truck. Diego was already awake and eating breakfast, though it was only six. Rob didn't look like he'd gotten much sleep, either.

His mother cleared her throat. "Why don't you boys talk in private?" she suggested, and they walked together into the room that Diego used to share with Dario. They sat down on Diego's bed, which was now devoid of sheets and blankets and pillows.

"I didn't want you to leave without knowing," Rob finally said.

"I wish you'd told me sooner."

"I was afraid you wouldn't…" Rob trailed off. "I was afraid." He shrugged. "Anyway, I figured your mind has been on more important things lately."

"I'd have loved a distraction."

"Bad timing, I guess," Rob said. "Sorry."

"Me, too. But, look. It's only an hour and a half out to where we live. You could come visit sometimes, you know? For a weekend or whatever."

"Yeah," Rob agreed. "I'd really like that, actually."

"I'm going to miss you," Diego said, and reached for Rob's hand. "You really… you helped me out with a lot of stuff, you know."

Rob entwined his fingers with Diego's. "Hey, you've been in all my best art. You're like my muse, man." He laughed nervously. "Shit, Diego, I'm going to miss you."

"I… I…"

Diego couldn't think of a single thing to say. He looked over at Rob, who blinked behind his glasses and smiled sadly. And they sat like that for a few seconds, before Rob said, "Well, are you going to kiss me or what?"

"Okay," Diego said. They inched closer together, and finally touched lips. They barely brushed together, but that was all they really needed. Somehow, Diego knew there'd be plenty of time for kissing later.

Things weren't over, he realized, as they walked back to the main room, hand in hand. No one looked too surprised. Rob pulled a chair over next to Diego's, and they didn't talk much as Diego finished breakfast.

The thing was, Diego realized, things didn't just _end._ Every experience, good or bad, held the seeds of the next thing to happen, good or bad. The part of his life where he had to worry about gangs was ending, Diego thought. But the part of his life with Rob was just beginning. Because life was like that. Dario's was over, but everyone around him had changed because of it.

Things didn't just end. That was life.

Rob kissed him goodbye through the window of the car they'd rented, and promised to visit as soon as he could. Diego promised to call. And as they drove away, he wondered if that was just how things happened. That was life.

That was art.

* * *

**I really love/hate this one, and would seriously appreciate feedback (critical or otherwise) on it. A million thanks to Harmony, who is both the best beta and the best sounding board ever.**


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